


The Doctor Will See You Now

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Garage Tapes [11]
Category: Gotham City Garage (Comics)
Genre: Jonathan is basically an eldritch abomination, Mentions of Death, Southern Hospitality, Supernatural Elements, and this is what happens, he and Scarecrow are not one and the same, the ONE time Jason seeks mental help for being murdered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: “You didn’t have to.” Crane undoes the buttons at his cuffs and starts rolling up his sleeves. His left arm is laced with green...plant, that’s the best Jason’s got, but down near his wrist is something yellow. “An accident left this arm scarred up to the shoulder,” he says lightly. “I found my patients were a little less unsettled by the kudzu. Lie back, now...was this incident a childhood one, or adulthood?”





	The Doctor Will See You Now

_ “They say he…eats your fear. Not just takes it from you.” _

_ “Some people come back different. Some people don’t come back at all.” _

Jason looks at the crumbling mansion that seemed to appear out of thin air. He’d thought it was a mirage, it and it’s…trees (trees? Out here?), but the bark had been solid under his fingertips.

It’s a flat mansion, with columns and three stories and a wicker porch swing. The porch ceilings are faded blue and vines are steadily climbing the walls, and some of the upper windows are cracked. It looks abandoned, but to be fair, so do most structures in the Freescape.

Few of them actually are.

He’s just reached the bottom of the stairs when he notices someone in the wicker swing. It’s a teenager, maybe a few years younger than Jason himself. He’s a spindly, fragile-looking kid, and the book he’s holding looks like it weighs more than he does.

“Can I help you.” He doesn’t look up from the book. There’s no title on the spine. “Or are you just going to stand there catching flies.”

Um. Okay, then.

“I’m looking for a Doctor Crane?”

The book goes down. The teenager looks up at him, blue eyes bright behind rimless glasses, and smiles.

“Of course you are.” Jason doesn’t like kid’s eyes. They’re older than the rest of him. “Come in.”

Jason regrets this already. But it’s been months since he’s been able to sleep, and…and he’s desperate.

The inside of the house is dark and cool, a stark contrast to the outside. Dust-covered pictures and mirrors line the hallway, which opens up into a rose-colored sitting room.

“Step into my parlor,” the teenager says, and Jason mentally tacks on a,  **said the spider to the fly** . “Sit. Do you need something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“I do. Settle in, relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

And then he’s just…gone, leaving Jason alone with furniture that looks like it’s a few hundred years old. It’s sturdy, though-heavy wood-and there’s a bookshelf on the far wall. Closer inspection of said shelf reveals that the books are probably older than the furniture, and that none of them have titles.

Come to think of it, this whole room is…off. It’s almost like it’s tilted, somehow, but the floor is level under his feet. But it’s not just that. It’s the (Whispers? Insects?) noises in the walls, almost too low to pick up, but he can feel them in his bones.

This was a mistake. He should go.

He turns around, intending to do just that, and nearly bowls the kid over. His glasses flash in irritation, but his grip on the glass in his fingers doesn’t waver.

“I said to  _ sit _ ,” he says, voice dry. “And to relax. I can’t help you if you’re halfway to a heart attack.”

Help?

“Doctor Crane?”

“Mm.” The lemonade in the glass smells sour, like there’s no sugar at all inside. “You’re here for…” The kid circles him, head tilted like a bird’s. “No, no, don’t tell me…night terrors, yes? Full-on thrashing,  **screaming** night terrors. Oh, yes, I can tell. We’ll fix that, don’t you fret.”

He’s fretting. You know what, he’s fine. He’s leaving.

“You know, I changed my mind—”

**_“NO.”_** Jason freezes. Crane takes a sip of the painfully sour lemonade. “You’re here, now. Come along.”

He’s here now. And surely he can fend off a stick figure, right?

Surely.

So he follows Crane deeper into the house, into a small, cramped little room with no windows. There’s a long, thin table against the wall with a bag sitting on top of it, and across from that is a couch.

“Lie down, please.”

“Um--”

“I  _ said _ , lie down, please.” He does as asked, already regretting his life choices. Crane smiles and leans against the table, palms flat against the wood and sharp elbows jutting out behind him. “Better. Now.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. “What exactly is your problem? In detail, please.”

All right. All right.

“Night terrors,” he says carefully, taking comfort in the warm weight of the knife up his sleeve. “I haven’t. I haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours at a time in maybe…” He closes his eyes, tries to remember. “A month. I try, I just...I can’t. And I don’t. I’m  **tired** , and sometimes I wake up confused and...and I just don’t wanna hurt myself o-or someone else.”

“Of course you don’t,” Crane soothes. “Night terrors in adults often stem from a traumatic incident. Have you experienced any such incident?”

“Yes.”

“And what was that?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Oh, I doubt that  _ very _ much, Jason.”

What.

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

“You didn’t have to.” Crane undoes the buttons at his cuffs and starts rolling up his sleeves. His left arm is laced with green...plant, that’s the best Jason’s got, but down near his wrist is something yellow. “An accident left this arm scarred up to the shoulder,” he says lightly. “I found my patients were a little less unsettled by the kudzu. Lie back, now...was this incident a childhood one, or adulthood?”

“Childhood,” he says carefully, wishing Crane would move a bit so he could see what the yellow thing is. “I. I was kidnapped, when I was fifteen, and they.” He swallows. “They killed me.”

“Clearly it wasn’t permanent,” Crane says, voice still light. He leans forward, glasses turning into mirrors when they hit the light. “Did they resuscitate you, or were you conveniently rescued?”

He could lie, make this believable. But his...what they did to him, that’s only half the problem.

“Neither,” he whispers. “I woke up in my grave six months later.”

“Are you claustrophobic, Jason?”

“Excuse me?”

“Claustrophobia, from Latin ‘claustrum’, an irrational fear of confined spaces. I would imagine that such a phobia would arise from your...experience.”

“A little, I guess, but--”

“And are you nyctophobic? Any fear of the dark?”

“Only after a nightmare--”

“How did you get out?”

“I dug my way out--no. No. You wait.” He wants to sit up, but his limbs are so, so heavy. It’s sticky in this room, humid. “You believe me?”

“I have no reason not to. If you are telling me stories, that is due to an underlying psychological condition, and we will deal with that when or if it arises,” Crane says smoothly. “But for the moment...let’s see about getting you that good night’s sleep, hmm? Be still. Be very, very, still.”

“What are--”

_ “Shhhhhhhh.” _

Jason  _ shhhhhhh _ s, tries to lift a finger when it feels like Crane’s not looking at him. It’s heavy. He feels so very heavy.

“Close your eyes,” Crane whispers, “and take slow, deep breaths now...and whatever you think you might hear, or feel,  _ don’t look. _ ”

Huh…?

“I-I think I changed my mind…”

** _“Too late.”_ **

Searing agony lances through his body from his head to his toes. It doesn’t feel like the electricity, it just  **hurts** , tightens his muscles and arches his back and keeps him from even screaming. Hot, scratchy fingers come down on his face, digging into his skin and  **pinching** , pulling at muscles he didn’t know he had.

** _“Perfect,”_ ** something (Crane?) rasps.  ** _“Let it out…”_ **

He chokes when he tries to speak. The scratchy fingers explore his face, dragging over his lips and cheeks and eyes, before settling on the sides of his head, and he  **remembers** that feeling. Warm palms, firm fingers.

_ “Please I wanna go home I want my mom--” _

_ “Sh-sh-sh--” _

_ “Please--” _

The horrible  _ snap! _ of his own neck.

He’s not going to die here. Not again.

He lashes out, elbows hitting something spindly, and stumbles blindly out of the room. Now that he’s off the couch, the humidity is still oppressive but his limbs aren’t so heavy and his sight’s coming back.

**Which way, how do I get out of here-?**

** _“WHERE ARE YOU?”_ **

He runs, tripping over his ankles and bumping into the walls of the too-thin hallway, towards where he thinks the front door is. He turns out to be right, and he crashes through it and out into the burning sun, collapses down the porch steps and onto the cracked dirt.

When he rolls onto his back, gasping and shaking, there’s no Crane, no trees, and no house. Just the desert, as far as the eye can see.

THE END


End file.
